Two weeks ago my dad died.
It has been very hard.
My heart has a hole in it that has no edges. The hole just ebbs and flows like the tide.
It comes with the healing power of hands: hands that hug, hands that wipe away tears, hands that clasp, hands that gently pat, hands that clap, hands that chop and slice and wipe and serve.
In the loving act of preparing nourishment for the swarm of aching hearts and bodies streaming through the house in the past few weeks, many hands were busy.
I remember my dad’s hands and wish I could hold them again.